Author's note: If you have not read the previous story of this tale, please do so. You will better understand the characters of this tale, their way of speaking, and some of the mannerisms and customs unique to Japan. Forgive me if there are parts of this story that differ from your knowledge and understanding of Japan and its people.
The standard discloser applies in that everyone is eighteen-years or older and all characters being purely fictional. Constructive comments and suggestions are always welcomed. Please enjoy the telling of the tale.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In Japan, a young woman is expected to be innocent and proper, observant of the numerous etiquette rules, and the epitome of Japanese feminine virtues. She is indoctrinated from an early age to defer to males, her seniors, and her superiors to the point where it is second nature to her. When she marries, she is further expected to be submissive, obedient, and devoted in the caring for her spouse no matter what sacrifice she must endure on his behalf.
It was this fundamental mindset that enabled me to seduce Kiyomi, the beautiful but much-neglected housewife of Ichiro, my proverbial absent-minded and geeky college instructor. When faced with the distinct possibility that her husband might be dismissed due to his personal and academic shortcomings, Kiyomi desperately sought to prevent her ingrate husband from losing face. Although unwillingly at first, she gave her petite but luscious body to me, her husband's superior, to ensure that her spouse did not fall into disgrace.
However, in the process of discharging the obligation expected of a dutiful wife, Kiyomi discovered the world of "pillowing" (the Japanese euphemism for sex). Long denied by her neglectful spouse, she succumbed to her unfulfilled emotional needs and then the craving of her physical needs. As such, Kiyomi came to accept me as her secret lover and sensei (teacher/master) in a forbidden romance and all sexual matters.
However, carrying on a secret affair with a "gaijin" (foreigner) who was head of the language department of a prestigious university was a daunting for any Japanese woman, much less a married one. While I assisted in the matter by sending Ichiro on various research trips to the United States, there were only so many coincidental meetings that a faithful wife could have with her husband's foreign superior without drawing unwanted attention. It went without saying that our subsequent trysts created a stressful quandary for Kiyomi.
"Oh, Damon-sama, it is not proper for a wife to experience so much pleasure in the embrace of a man who is not her husband," Kiyomi sighed deeply in frustration after one of our trysts. "I should be content with the quick kisses and fleeting caresses that we share, but I am so shameless for I brazenly desire more.
"Under your tutelage, I have learned the art of giving a...how do you say it...ah, 'blow job.' It gives me great pleasure feeling your manhood fill my mouth and throat, and to see that I please you by doing so. And as for the cream of your loins that floods my mouth, it is so 'oishi' (delicious). Ummm, how the taste of you lingers delightfully in my mouth long after I have left you...ummm.
"I have placed myself on the 'pill' so that I can further pleasure you as you teach me the ways of...sexual...satisfaction. As instructed, I wear no undergarments so that you may have easy access to my body should the opportunity present itself. I never imagined that a man's touch could inflame me so, making my heart beat so loudly that others must surely know of my brazen excitement.
"Ooh, how my breath catches in my throat when you so manly...so 'un-Japanese'... pull apart of the folds of my kimono to release my much too bountiful breasts. Oh, Damon-sama, you cannot know how I have been told since I was young that my bosom is much too large for a proper lady - yet, with you, they seem so right. How my embarrassingly large nipples throb fiercely for hours after leaving you, longing for more of your lips, teeth, and fingers.
"I am so ashamed that I have become enamored with your...'quickies!' Ooh, Damon-sama, when you take charge of me and bending me over, hastily push my dress or kimono up my back. To be entered so suddenly and taken so vigorously makes the wincing pain is so...exquisite. As my knees weaken and my breath quickens with your lustful and virile use of me that I cannot help but feel like a desired woman...
"But our risk is great. There are so many eyes, ears, and wagging tongue. Our rather unusually close relationship...especially when Ichiro happens to be away...draws the attention of many around us. Ooh, Damon-sama, you are my sensei and I am your obedient student; yet, I fear that one day we shall be discovered to our shame and disgrace. What are we to do?"
Surprisingly, the answer to our dilemma was found in a rather unique Japanese institution - the "love hotel." To avoid the social humiliation of being caught violating the complex etiquette system that permeated all aspects of daily life, Japanese solution was incredibly simple - if others didn't know what you did, there was no cause for shame.
These highly discrete establishments complied fully with this tenet by limiting, if not eliminating, any interaction between their guests and the hotel staff. As a result, an ambiance of customer anonymity was created, enabling their Japanese clientele to satisfy out their erotic desires by providing the utmost privacy.
The hotel that I had chosen looked like a very ordinary low-rise apartment building from the outside to avoid drawing unwanted attention to what went on within its windowless walls. Room selection, entry arrangements, other desired amenities, and payment were done online via a created persona. A unique access code allowed entry into the hotel's parking structure and then raised the garage door of your designated stall. Upon exiting the car, another code allowed access to a short entryway and unlocked the selected private suite. No one would know who occupied the room or what we did in its confines; thus, allowing us to do something socially unacceptable without anyone knowing.
"Oh my, this is not what I had expected, Damon-sama. How delightfully 'quaint,'" Kiyomi murmured as we slipped off our footwear before entering our apartment. I knew that my choice of a traditional ambiance with a lot of wood, bamboo, tatami (straw mat flooring), sparse but functional furnishing, and tasteful floral arrangements would please my lover. "I am transported to my younger days of learning the tea ceremony and ikebana (flower arrangement) at my grandmother's in the country."
"Kiyomi, it is not tea that we will be partaking of but the sake of the finest quality which should be chilling on ice in the holder at that low-rise table. But, before we imbibe in some relaxing liquid, I wish us to be more comfortable. It would please me greatly if you would change from your lovely kimono since I would dislike wrinkling it in our enjoyment. There is a garment in that box that I wish you to wear...a present from me. Please change into it."
At one time, Kiyomi would have been shocked and balked at such a request; however, our stolen moments had taught her how her clothing could become quite mussed to give her a disheveled appearance which was unacceptable. She also knew that disrobing in front of me gave me immeasurable viewing pleasure. So, with a slight nod that hid a subtle smile, Kiyomi acquiesced to my request and began undoing her tasteful kimono layer by layer.
With measured movements, Kiyomi slowly disrobed in what seemed like a century-old almost-stylized manner that gradually revealed her snow-white nape, throat, and upper chest in a most enticing way. The binding decorative silk of her broad obi was unwound from around her trim waist; her dark green and sedate external kimono was removed next; and then her pale green under-robe was shed; each was neatly folded and set aside. Once free from the restraint of her kimono robes, Kiyomi's abundant bosom surged against the thin one-piece cotton liner that was held in place by several simple ties.
Tucking her liner under her knees as she knelt, Kiyomi opened my present and gasped loudly upon seeing its contents, her hand flying to cover her open mouth. She then held up a flimsy garment similar to her liner except that it was made of translucent material trimmed with thin satin and was a vibrant red. Kiyomi blushed before saying, "Damon-sama, this is so...unusual. I don't know if I...it is so sheer that it would be like wearing...nothing." Then with a slight pause of uncertainty, she demurely murmured, "And red is the color of..."
I knew that no proper Japanese woman would wear a red kimono undergarment that for centuries had been commonly associated with the loose and immoral women of the night. I also knew that Kiyomi was reluctant because the flimsy garment would readily expose size her in the most un-Japanese way by shamelessly flaunting instead of downplaying her physical attributes and unspoken sexuality.
"Kiyomi, the material and especially the color of what you hold is to remind you of the passion and pleasure that you have hidden within you. It pleases me and will serve to introduce you to your next phase of instruction. Now, please put it on and become a different woman within the confines of this love hotel suite."
With a fleeting glance at me, Kiyomi bowed in acquiesce as she whispered, "Hai (yes), Damon-sama." Untying her liner, she revealed her breathtaking snow-white nudity, and I had to stop myself from gawking in lusty appreciation. The red liner was slipped on, and its sheer material flowed like water over the curves of her petite form, clinging to and highlighting her full breasts, hanging sensuously off her large purple-red nipples, and then pooling over the black silk of her womanliness tucked between her soft inner thighs.
With gently closed eyes, Kiyomi shivered at the feathery caress of the soft material and after a moment of absorbing the ambiance of her clothing, instinctively reached to undo her put-up hair. However, before she could release ebony tresses, I stopped her, enjoying a single lock of ebony hair that drifted freely to contrast with her snow-white skin. When she gathered herself to look demurely at me, I saw my repressed and neglected housewife transformed into my enticingly submissive but willing mistress.
"Change me, Kiyomi-chan," I uttered as I stood before her with my chin pointed towards the soft cotton robe that was neatly folded at the base of a wooden valet.
